Fall to Pieces
by amberpire
Summary: Neville's been called weak his entire life, but it's him who puts Draco back together, it's him who doesn't fall apart. ;Neville/Draco;


_And I don't want to fall to p i e c e s_  
><em>I just want to sit and stare at <strong>you.<strong>_

* * *

><p>"No one is mad at you."<p>

Draco lifts his head from the library wall. He doesn't look at Neville, instead directing his gaze to one of the still broken windows. It would take a simple spell to repair it, but there's much bigger damage to attend to and it's just gone unnoticed for the time being. Draco frowns at it, at the pieces still clinging to the frame and the lines that spiderweb across the lavender glass. He wonders who broke it, Death Eater or no, and if anyone died because of the attack.

Neville chews his lip. He's used to Draco not answering, especially as of late. He knows that the Slytherin is listening, and he's there, and he's not ignoring Neville - they're having a conversation, it's just different than most. Neville can hear Draco's words in the way the boy presses his lips together, the taut lines that flicker in his cheeks, the way one hand always finds its way into his snowy hair and grips it like he wants to yank it out.

Neville stands. Draco doesn't look at him, his eyes still on the window, but his body responds to the other boy on some inner, natural instinct that he has. If the Gryffindor moves, he moves in sync, his body shifting slightly as the other boy comes to stand at his side. Suddenly his throat is thick and it's hard to swallow and Draco doesn't dare blink because if he cries again today he is seriously going to be pissed off and -

A blossom of warmth on his lower back. Draco heaves a hard breath before twisting. Neville's so tall now, so broad, that Draco barely has to duck his head to press it into Neville's shoulder. Draco's fingers curl into Neville's vest, desperate, _pathetic_, holding him closer and muffling the sobs that threaten to spill over.

"You did what your family told you to do," Neville is whispering, his voice deep and tired but so soft it makes Draco shudder, turning his face so his nose can smell the skin of his neck; underneath the sweat and blood is the smell of plants and soil because Neville loves herbology almost as much as he loves the wizard folded in his arms. "No one is mad. They understand. It's going to be _okay_."

Draco swears into Neville's neck, pulling back just far enough to deadbolt his cerulean eyes into the other boy's russet brown. Draco remembers Neville when he was a short, pudgy little first year, and now - he's got facial hair. The thought makes Draco chuckle weakly, a hand raising to stroke one of Neville's dirty, scratched cheeks. The prickly beginnings of a beard tickle the tips of his fingers. "How can you say that?" Draco shakes his head, fingers moving to slip across tendrils of brunette hair. "I'm a Death Eater, Neville."

"There's a difference between _wanting_ to be a Death Eater and being _forced_ to."

"Is there?" Draco releases him, taking a few steps backward and letting his arms stretch out. Neville frowns across at him, watching the blonde spin in a circle, head back, apparently displaying the destruction of the library - tattered, thrown books, toppled shelves, glass glittering from the floor like some warped representation of snow. "He did this and I was on his side."

Neville shakes his head. He's always been the voice of reason for Draco because although Draco's infamous for his strength and fearlessness, it's in the safety of Neville's arms that he allows the walls he's constructed for years to crumble at their feet, the dust swirling around them like ghosts. Neville's been called weak his entire life, but it's him who puts Draco back together, it's him who doesn't fall apart.

And he doesn't mind that Draco is broken, that sometimes he cries and falls and doesn't want to get back up. Neville, better than anyone else, knows that that isn't his fault.

He takes a step toward Draco but the other boy simply goes back farther, his arms still outstretched.

"I was on Voldemort's side, Bellatrix's side, the people who -" Draco's next breath busts into pieces, arms slamming to his sides. He doesn't finish, but he doesn't need to. The words write themselves in the dust left by the falling walls.

_The people who destroyed your parents._

Neville stands there for a long time, staring at him. He knows the Dark Mark is still beneath Draco's sleeve, that every time he watches Draco undress from now on, it'll be there like a stain that will never wash out. There is no spell to get rid of it, no way to cover it up, and when they came together on the sheets of their bed, that mark would touch his shoulders, his hips, his waist, and it could kill a little bit of him if he let it, but he won't. Because his parents were people of love and the last thing they would ever want of their son would be for him to turn away from something pure and right just because of the choices he shouldn't have had to make.

"You were on the side of your family, Draco." Neville's hands land on Draco's shoulders, but Draco can't meet his eyes, his gaze once more falling on the shattered window behind the Gryffindor. "I would have done the same thing."

Draco's silence speaks more than any words he could utter. Slowly, he looks away from the destruction, the broken window, and into Neville's eyes, this boy - this _man_ - that has held him together when everything was going to hell. This once tiny little Gryffindor now the one Draco depends on, relies on, and that used to scare him so much it hurt but not having Neville was a pain he couldn't endure. Not ever.

All of Draco's life, he's been a puppet at the mercy of whoever holds the strings; his parents, Voldemort, but never himself. And now, everything's over, and the strings have been cut, and Draco doesn't really know how to operate on his own, but he knows Neville will show him.

"It's going to be okay. I promise."

Draco touches Neville's scratchy chin. He kisses him, holding the Gryffindor close, because maybe his bravery will wash off on himself one day.

They don't say _I love you_. The silence speaks it for them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Don't ask me what this is or where it came from but it's there. So. Yeah._

_The song/title is Avril Lavigne's "Fall to Pieces." You should listen to that while reading this again._


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